


Veränderung

by Sianco (gwenynnefydd)



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, German Hastings, M/M, Nazi Hastings, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/pseuds/Sianco
Summary: Hastings finds himself torn between his morals and his country. German!Nazi!Hastings Poirot/Hastings(duplicate posting)





	Veränderung

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a duplicate of an orphaned work, that I'm reclaiming to put back under my own name (teen!me was far too enthusiastic about orphaning /o\ ).
> 
> So, I wrote this when I was 17-18, and as a result some things in this fic are fairly problematic. Knowing what I know now, I probably would not have written this at all, but I think it's important to hold myself to my mistakes, which is why I'm keeping this tied to my account.

The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air as I left the local club and started to head home. It was January 30th, and the city of Berlin was celebrating. Torches lit up the city, and the stamp of feet pounding the streets in a parade was never too far away. Drunken voices warbled German songs, off key and out of tune, sometimes the national anthem, sometimes _Die Fahne Hoch,_ and sometimes a mishmash of songs that even they didn't know the lyrics to. The January air had a sharp nip to it, but it didn't seem to bother the drunken revellers, who were all too happy to extend their parties to the street.

Herr Hitler had done it. He had become chancellor of Germany, a state of affairs most welcome in this economic climate. Germany had been clamouring for some sort of end to the cloud of poverty that had encircled the country, and he had promised it. The failings of the current government had driven voters and corporations to support the _NSDAP_ and now the government was capitulating to its people's demands. Men flocked to become members of the _Sturmabteilung_ _,_ young boys and girls raced to be a part of the _Hitler-Jugend_ , and the country was poised for change.

I had joined early on in the campaign. Germany was collapsing under the weight of its debt, and the people were paying for it, in unemployment rates, in poverty and in growing despair. I could not stand by and watch neighbours, friends and family wallow in depression, wondering if their next meal will be their last. The was a chance for me to fight for the rights my community desperately lacked.

And now all my work may had finally come to fruition. With Herr Hitler in a position of power, there could finally be some change. The streets of Berlin thrummed with expectation. Supporters came out in their thousands, expecting change, hoping for the best. I, along with a few other acquaintances in the _Sturmabteilung_ , had been dragged to a nearby club to celebrate. Although I enjoyed celebrations, I was not a heavy drinker, and therefore left as soon as the party began to get raucous. Deciding that taking a lift home would not be the safest option, I began to walk home, hiding my face in my scarf to shield it from the winter chill.

I had been so intent on getting home that I had not been looking where I was going, and as a result I careened into a man coming the other way, sending him sprawling across the floor. Immediately worried I had hurt him, I started apologizing profusely in German, but as I helped him up, I realised that he did not look like the type of man who came from Germany at all. He was darker, shorter in stature and had more exotic looks than the men in this area, with dark hair and bright green eyes. He was attractive in a foreign kind of way, and I found myself warming as I brushed dirt from his coat..

"I... apologize, sir." I was not sure if he spoke German at all, so addressed him, with some difficulty, in the only other foreign language I knew - English. He looked up at me, before smiling and also replying in hesitant English.

"It is of no matter. You needed to be somewhere, yes?"

"Only home. I should've looked."

"Home? You are not... celebrating?" He nodded down the road, where the smell of smoke and sounds of the parade still lingered.

"Unless you are suggesting differently." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I blushed and looked down at my feet. I started to apologise for my outburst, but a low laugh drew my attention back to the man beside me. He was smiling warmly at me, and I couldn't help but smile back, despite my embarrassment.

"Perhaps I am, monsieur. Perhaps I am." He laughed again at my incredulous grin, and patted my arm affectionately. "I do not believe I know your name."

"Oh! Umm... Hastings. Arthur Hastings. And you?"

"Hercule Poirot."

"That is a foreign name. Are you here on a... holiday?"

"For work. But I do not think there will be much work occurring with this celebration." He looked down the alley, where a couple of drunk men had fallen over, a swastika flag tied around their shoulders. "Do you know what the cause of this is?"

"Well, this evening, Herr Hitler has been appointed Chancellor. The Night of Dreams, some call it. A time for change according to his party."

"A party I see you are a part of. In Belgium, this... badge is well-known." He reached up and thumbed the insignia that was on my jacket. I let him do so, mainly because I rather liked having him near. However, I did feel a little uncomfortable at him recognising the insignia. The NSDAP had a reputation for violence and intolerance that preceded every member of the party. Although I sympathised with many of their policies, there were some I disagreed with. I did not dare voice my opinion, however - I feared being killed by my own party leaders. _  
_

I lay my hand over his, hiding the insignia from view. His hand, cool and soft to the touch, stilled in its motions, and he looked up at me, eyes questioning. I smiled softly, rubbing my thumb across his knuckle, before sliding my fingers down his hand, lifting his palm and pressing a kiss to it, my cheeks reddening even more at my openness. Poirot's eyes fluttered shut, a small smile playing at his lips. My hand slid up his arm, across his shoulder and further upwards to cup his cheek. He smiled softly, opened his eyes and looked up at me, as if trying to ascertain whether I was serious or not. I do not know what he saw in my gaze, but it seemed to satisfy him, as he took hold of my shirt front and pulled me into a kiss.

We went to my flat, a small place a few metres down the road. We conversed some more over brandy, but this was quickly abandoned to more pleasurable activities. We took it slowly, not wanting to the night to end. Sometimes we would talk of things, of events and occasions, of emotions and lust, of us as a pair, but many a time we let our bodies do the talking. As the night wore on, we grew closer and closer. I found myself speaking of things I would've never dreamt of speaking about, and he did not scoff or laugh about them. He listened, sometimes giving titbits of his own past, sometimes distracting with hands in places they shouldn't have been.

How many times we made love that night, I shall not be able to recall. But after we had spent our last vestiges of energy, we lay together in the dark bedroom, our naked bodies basking in the soft lamplight that crept under the curtains. With my head upon Poirot's chest, I thumbed the coarse hair that lay on his chest, the light making it glitter like black gold. He was gently stroking my side, sometimes running his thumb across my nipple., causing a most pleasurable tingle to run throughout my body.

"Why did you join the _Sturmabteilung_?" He suddenly asked, rousing me from my drowsy state.I sighed, and glanced down at our discarded clothes. The insignia glinted dimly on my abandoned jacket, the silver _totenkopf_ grinning jeeringly up at us.

"I... cannot stand by the current government. If you stayed here, _lived_ here, you would see. Babies left crying in the street, children with ribs you can count from a mile off... I can't just sit here and do nothing. We are trapped in a circle of poverty, and this government has no interest in helping us."

"But why this party? Why not another? The _NSDAP_ are not so accommodating to people like us."

"We have Rohm. He is homosexual. The other parties do not have a man like him." I hesitated a little, before continuing. "We hope... we hope that he will be able to sway Herr Hitler to change policies."

"And if he does not? Does it not frighten you what will happen if he does not?"

"I can't run from it. If I did, they would kill me. I have to fight for the injustices Germany is facing. If it involves hiding myself from them, then so be it." I took his hand from my side and idly played with his fingers. "But I am scared... so very scared."

I felt him still beneath me, before he turned onto his side, dislodging my head from his chest. I felt a little hurt at the abrupt loss of contact, but he soon settled to face me. He studied my face, before pulling me into a tight embrace. I snuggled against him, drawing comfort from his arms as he nuzzled the crook of my neck. We stayed in such a fashion until he pulled away and gazed directly into my eyes.

" _Monsieur_ , if you do find yourself in need of assistance, if you do have the change of heart... I shall try to help."

I stared at him, overcome by sudden emotion. I had never met someone who would so willingly lay down his life to aid me. I pulled him close and kissed him hard. He returned the kiss with equal fervour, running his hands through my hair. We only parted when we needed to draw in air. I gazed at his flushed face, the glittering green eyes and saw only open honesty and caring there. He really meant it. I had a way out.

"Thank you." I whispered. "Thank you _so much_."

* * *

The quiet splash of water hitting my foot was the only sound this one night. The town in which I was walking was muted in fear, fear of guns and bombs and soldiers. The rain covered streets reflected the moonlight, the cobbles glittering like the billion shards of glass on _Kristallnacht._ It had been ten years since Hitler had come to be chancellor, and four since he had brought this war above our heads. Whereas once he had promised to save us from despair, to bring us from this recession we had fallen into, he now remained deaf to the screams of civilians that were dropping dead faster than the bullets that killed them.

I had hoped that the war would not amount to much, that the Reich would see sense, but no. There was no sense, no moment of revelation. Rohm was dead, and people like me may as well have been. At the sound of Rohm's dying gasp, they had scuttled into the crevices and corners of Europe and America, running from the country that had sworn to protect them. I had stayed in my position in the army, tied there by some misguided sense of duty to my country, but as the years rolled by, Germany grew despondent and broken, and I soon realised that it wasn't my country I was fighting for any more. I wanted to fight for the people of Germany, to defend them from the bullets and the bombs that the British and the French rained upon our heads daily, to fight for our right to live free from the abject poverty that had been shoved upon us after the Treaty of Versailles.

But that was not what the army was fighting for now. The German people still sat in pools of blood, their finances in disarray as bomb after bomb blew up businesses and homes. Fires raged throughout the cities each night, the screams of fear ringing out throughout the concrete shells of buildings as people ran with flames licking at their heels, some being pulled into the ever-prevalent abyss of death as the sky lit up with the burning light of a thousand suns. There was no riches here, no prosperity that the Reich had promised us, just broken people stood on broken corners with their few possessions burning among the rubble and the wreckage.

They tried to convince us that it was the cruelty of the Allied forces that caused this, that it was their fault that Germany was reduced to such a state. But no, it wasn't. For if it was Britain, why did the Führer and his little team of soulless cronies still sit in their tower of ivory, surrounded by their gems and their power? Why did they not step down for one moment, help out those who were in need? It was the Allied that rained bombs down upon our heads, but it wasn't them who took regular working German men from the street and threw them into the camps at Berga and Bernburg, it wasn't them who lied to our faces with posters of glory and prosperity. The Third Reich told us that we would be victorious, that we would be proud, that we would be safe.

They lied.

Often I thought of ways to escape the madness. Poirot's offer always came to mind. In the darkest moments of my career, I often thought of him. It had been ten years, and I still remembered that one night. In my camp bed at night, I fantasized about him swooping in and taking me away from this horror. Whereas the men in my command fantasized about blonde bombshells and brunette beauties, I dreamt of the exotic man I had once bumped into on the street. In one night this man had become a lifeline, a rock in the storm of war. I did not know if he still thought of me - I hoped that he did - but I still thought of him.

I did not know where he was until a chance report came to our base. We had originally planned to pass by this town on our way to Mechelen, to relieve the guards there - however, we received a report that someone was housing "unsavoury persons" in one of the larger houses in the town, with the intention of smuggling them out of Germany. The report had come with a written account, and a few images. I scoured them when I had the chance, and my heart leapt into my throat as I recognized a man stood in the corner of one frame, conversing with an unseen person. It was him! I very nearly walked straight out of the camp in order to see him again, but common sense regained control of my limbs before I had scarcely moved a muscle. It was lucky I did not act on my first instinct - my chance to see him again came sooner than I expected. Within the hour we had orders to have someone scout the area, arrest any of these persons and transport them to Mechelen. The commanding officer had asked for a volunteer to scout the area, and I had nearly jumped at the chance to go. After all these years of hell and misery, I was about to escape and start a new life! The very thought pumped adrenaline through my veins, and I found it very difficult to contain my excitement and nervousness at the prospect.

I left the base at around 8PM, the commanding officer believing it to be easier to scout secretly under the cover of darkness. As soon as I was out of sight of the base, I ripped the swastika from my arm and threw it into a nearby puddle. The symbol that I had worn with such pride now meant nothing but deceit to me. As I neared the town, I removed any recognisable part of the German army uniform and threw it into nearby hedgerows, lest someone recognise it and alert Poirot and the refugees to our presence. I wanted- no, _needed_ to speak to him first. Nearly a decade ago he had given me an option, an exit route out of the army and into a new life. I had refused it at the time, the duty to my country overcoming the temptation, but now it was different. I was no longer serving my country - I had not been for several years - and so held no ties to the army, so I could embrace the temptation to leave and not return.

The house came into view in front of me, and I approached it with trepidation. Faint glimmers of light glittered around the edges of the tarred windows, showing there was some occupation of the building, and the faint buzz of voices came through the walls. My hands shook as I approached, the dangers of what I was doing slowly dawning on me as I drew closer and closer to the door. What if Poirot refused to help me? What if he did not believe that the army was waiting to pounce on him and the other refugees? I could not go back now - I had come too far to walk back into hell, and besides, I couldn't find the vestiges of my uniform in the dark anyway. I had to try.

I raised my hand, and with a slight hesitation, knocked on the door. The buzz of voices immediately ceased. I waited, as patiently as I could, until the door opened a crack, and I saw the face of a young woman peering out through the crack. She did not look like one of the natives of this town - her ark hair was rough, almost woollen, and her skin was dark compared to the light-skinned populace of the town.

"Monsieur Poirot?" I asked. I did not know if she spoke any English or German, but I hoped she would recognise the name. She looked at me quietly, her eyes flashing with recognition for the name, before she turned back into the house, quietly calling out his name. There was another buzz of voices, before the door opened a little wider, and the man I had remembered for over a decade appeared on the door front.

The war had taken its toll on the man. He was older, greyer and a lot thinner than I remembered. There were new worry lines along his brow, a slight slump to his shoulders, and the green eyes that had once glimmered with pleasure were now dim, looking me up and down. I feared for a moment that he did not recognise me, but before I could say something, his eyes widened in recognition, then hardened in anger. He took a step backwards, and looked as if he was going to shut the door in my face, but before he could do so, I spoke up.

"Poirot, _please_. I've come with a warning."

Perhaps it was the pleading note to my voice, or sorry state in which I looked, but something in Poirot's eyes softened, and he stayed by the door.

"What?" I let go of a breath I hadn't been aware I was holding. He was listening. That was the first hurdle to over and done with.

"The army are sat in a base near here. They-" I lowered my voice to a surreptitious whisper. "They know you're hiding people here, Poirot. You aren't safe."

Poirot eyes flashed with fear, and for the first time he looked directly into my eyes. We stared at each other, him trying to ascertain if I was being sincere, and me being captivated by those eyes once more, hoping that this would not be the last time I saw them. Then, with a decisive nod of the head, Poirot stepped back and held the door open.

"Come inside. This is not the talk for the doorstep." I walked past him into the dingy hallway of the house, and he shut the door behind me. Taking me by the elbow, he led me to a flight of stairs that connected to a dark upper floor. But before we could ascend the stairs, a voice came through from one of the downstairs rooms.

_"Qui est-il?"_

Poirot and I turned to peer into the room. A small group of people were huddled underneath some blankets in the corner of the room. A grey-haired man had stood up and was walking towards us, shoulders wrapped in a tartan blanket, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

 _"Il est un... camarade."_ Poirot replied, looking at him with a coolness that almost made me shiver. The man paid no attention to Poirot's attitude, instead looking me up and down with a critical eye. After his appraisal, he gave a derisive snort, and said to Poirot;

_"Il ressemble à un boche pour moi. Est-il sauf apporter l'etrange ici?"_

_"Je lui fais confiance. Si vous voulez bien m'excuser, je dois parler avec lui. Seul."_ Poirot gave me a little push up the stairs to get me moving. I had no idea what was going on, but I got the feeling that the man was not happy about my presence here. I did not blame him - us Germans had probably ruthlessly stalked him since the start of the war. I reached the top of the stairs, but before Poirot could show me where to go, the man walked towards us and lay a hand on the banister.

 _"Je ne sais pas l'aise avec vous parlez avec lui seul."_ He said, his disapproval very clear in his voice. Poirot bristled at his words. _"Peut-etre que je pourrais-"_

 _"Non!"_ The strength in which Poirot said this made me jump a little. I could see the man below was a little taken aback too at the intensity of his voice. Poirot looked down at him, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer.

 _"Il ne parlera pas à quiconque sauf moi, Andrien."_ Poirot climbed the stairs and took my elbow again. _"Cela est définitive."_ With that, I was steered into a small room, and any of the other man's protests were shut out when Poirot pushed the door closed. _  
_

The room in which I was in was dim and cramped, with a single bare lightbulb lighting the entire space. Piles of blankets were scattered around the room, but there were no beds - it seemed that this was not meant to be a permanent camp for them. I felt a sharp stab of guilt - Poirot had obviously had to move around the country to escape men like me, sleeping rough and always with one eye open, whereas I had the relative comfort of home, or at least a camp bed.

Poirot guided me to a moth-eaten settee in the corner. I sat down on the edge of the seat, unaccountably nervous. Poirot sat opposite me, looking at me with concerned green eyes.

"What worries you, Hastings?"

And that was all it took. Suddenly I was explaining all to Poirot - what I had done, the hell that had happened, what would happen here today. He listened intently, nodding once in a while, looking deep in thought all the while. When I finished, he simply gazed at me for a while, before raising a hand to my cheek. I leant into the touch, the intimate gesture a reminder of that evening we spent in each others embrace.

"Everything I did... everything I let the men do... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I am such a coward-"

"But you came here. You found courage, _mon brave_. You came to warn us."

"But what about the others? Those people I have watched _die-_ " Poirot blocked my next words with a finger to my lips.

"The past cannot be changed. I despise what you did, but your regret is true."

"I know it cannot be changed. But I cannot help my feelings."

Poirot heaved a deep sigh, thoughtfully running his finger across my lower lip. I took the hand that the finger was attached to and pressed a kiss to the palm. Poirot smiled nostalgically at my actions, but he soon adopted a more sobering expression.

"So much has changed since we last met." He murmured, cupping my cheek again.

"Do you remember it?" I asked.

"I remember it well."

"The Night of Dreams..."

"It does not seem so now."

"No..." My thoughts drifted back to the start of the war - the air of celebration, the expectation, the hope that had been so rampant among the streets of Berlin. Those thoughts and feelings that had been so carelessly trampled by actions of war and revenge.

Poirot, seeing the path that my thoughts were taking, cooed softly, and pressed a kiss to my brow. I raised my chin ever so slightly, silently asking. He smiled a little, before softly kissing my on the mouth. I kissed back, slowly remembering all the little details to this man that time had wiped away. We broke apart, but remained close enough so that our breaths mingled.

"It has been a hard road for us all." he whispered to me, his other hand grasping my own. "War has brought terror upon us all. You, I..."

"You are frightened?"

"I am."

"I am scared too, Poirot... so very scared. I can't stay fighting any more." I admitted softly, squeezing his hand tightly, drawing comfort from it when he tightened his grip. "You.. you said once that you could help me. You could get me out of here."

"And I can," he replied softly. "I do not know if this will work. But I shall try. _Pour l'amour de Dieu_ , I will try my best."

* * *

It was not easy to escape the war, but we did the best we could. By a mixture of my knowledge of the German army, Poirot's intellect and the knowledge of the Romani and Belgian folk that travelled with us, we managed to smuggle ourselves into Switzerland. Unfortunately, we were caught only a few days after arriving. With quite a bit of debating and arguing, I managed to get myself, Poirot and two of the Belgians the right to stay here - however, the Romani and the others were turned away and deported.

Poirot and I stayed together here until after the war had ended, then emigrated to England. I had never been to England before, and it certainly was nothing like they described it in the war posters back in Germany. It was not a fat, rich island that revelled in the suffering of the Germans, but a broken country ripped apart by the war, like Germany had been. We bought a flat in what remained of London, Poirot joined the local police force, and I gained a job as a secretary to an MP.

It was a different life to what I was used to - whereas Germany in the time between wars was volatile and desperate, England was calm and collected. The stiff upper lip was an almost revered quality, and the ability to remain strong when the country was brought to its needs still amazes me to this very day. Both Poirot and I learned much during the first few years of our stay there - reining in emotion, improving our English, learning the tops and tricks of English life. It wasn't easy - many Englishmen had quite terrible attitudes towards foreigners due to the war - but we soon learnt.

Soon enough, we were settled and happy as could be. We could not show our affection to each other in public, but we soon befriended understanding people in the city around us. The struggles we faced in day to day life were nothing compared to what we had experienced on the continent during the war. The world turned on, the war was soon a distant memory, and Poirot and I moved on from our past. It was time for change, and change we did.


End file.
